


Reprieve

by Talullah



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8938306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Glorfindel visits an old friend.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elladansgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elladansgirl/gifts).



> This takes place in the year before the Battle of Fornost.
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Emyn Duir, 1974, Third Age**

Glorfindel stood before the doors to Thranduil’s throne room, waiting to be announced. Made of impossibly thick oak darkened by the ages, the doors were magnificently tall and a feast for the eyes. They were profusely carved with scenes of the forest, from the noble to the comical… and the lewd too, Glorfindel noticed, as his eye was drawn to a tiny detail, near a hinge, of two lovers copulating in a shady bower. He let his gaze roam the superb work of art, stopping here and there, until he reached the top, which was so far above his head he could barely see the intricacies of the work. From there, his eyes followed the barely-lit cave wall to the glorious ceiling sparkling with crystals.

Thranduil’s staff broke Glorfindel’s long wait right at the moment he was gazing directly up. He had only the fraction of a second to compose himself as the doors opened and the buffoon, announced him.

“Your Majesty, the herald of Imladris.”

Glorfindel snarled inwardly. He had spent the better half of an evening explaining that this audience had been requested and approved by letter and that he was not a herald, but rather a delegate for a specific issue, a fact that Thranduil and his staff were fully aware of. He suspected the man’s deafness to his explanation was due more to ill-will than to an obtuse nature, and perhaps, part of a concerted effort to thwart his mission.

Inhaling, Glorfindel stepped into the large hall. He had only been to Oropher’s court in Amon Lanc twice, and, apparently, things were quiet different here, in Emyn Duir. After the Last Alliance Thranduil had, sometimes cautiously, sometimes callously, avoided visitors from the other Elven realms, to a point that his aloofness became conspicuous. It was known that the Elves of Greenwood the Great, now Mirkwood, conducted business with the men of the lake often and, more sporadically, with the Dwarves of Erebor.

But with the Elves, even the few messengers sent were kept on comfortable but isolated rooms and encouraged to leave early. Only Mithrandir was welcome and even so his welcoming often left something to be desired. As Glorfindel progressed he resisted the urge to glance at the magnificent room – later there would be time for that. Now, he just had to approach the throne in measured steps, not so fast that he seemed too eager, not so slow that he looked fearful. He kept his eyes fixed at a point somewhere behind Thranduil’s left ear until he stood close to the throne. Only then, did he look directly into the king’s eyes.

“Your majesty, I salute you,” he said, bowing.

Thranduil shifted slightly, a slight smirk twitching on the corner of his mouth.

Glorfindel continued. “I offer you the regard and highest esteem of Imladris, on behalf of Lord Elrond and the Lady Celebrían. I was sent, as a delegate, to renew our people’s vows of trust and mutual assistance.”

Thranduil yawned.

“Very well, then, Lord Glorfindel,” he said, stretching his legs. “You can go straight to the heart of the matter.”

Glorfindel resisted the urge to scowl. “King Thranduil, with due respect to those present, the matters I have come here to discuss are for your ears only,” he said, glancing at the Elves gathered around the aisles to the throne.

“Let me guess,” said Thranduil, rising from the throne. “The Noldor felt the urge to go to war, to once more meddle in the affairs of others, and you are here to persuade us to join you in your… efforts, for the lack of a better word.”

Glorfindel lifted an eyebrow. “That is certainly one perspective.”

“And a mighty fine guess, I daresay,” Thranduil parried.

Glorfindel inhaled. “For what it is worth, we are no longer “The Noldor” but rather a mixed people who share blood, culture and heritage.” he said. No sooner had the words left his mouth than he kicked himself inwardly – that was far too defensive.

Thranduil smirked. “Well, yes, of course you are. And we are ourselves, still. Isolated, ignorant, unskilled.”

“I would never-” Glorfindel stopped himself, realizing that, once more, he had fallen into defensiveness. Before, when they were friends and something more, he had appreciated how masterfully Thranduil conducted himself. The shard of an unbidden memory cut through his mind – him and Thranduil, thirsty, covered in the ever-prevailing dust of Mordor, laughing at how Thranduil had negotiated Círdan into a wall over supply management. Glorfindel had said, “May we ever be friends… for you are a terrible foe.” Thranduil had punched him on the side and later had kissed the bruise.

Only that they were not. Thranduil resented that no one had tried to stop Oropher in his inglorious sacrifice. After the battle the Silvan and the Sindar under his rule had collected their wounded and their dead. They had burned the corpses and left immediately, dragging the injured through the long miles left to home in the Greenwood.

Glorfindel had tried to reach him at a private level as Gil-galad’s former counselor and Elrond’s close friend. With heavy losses and without their king, the Noldor were drifting, and Elrond was too preoccupied trying to bring Isildur to reason. Glorfindel was left alone, filling a role that hadn’t been his by right or inclination. Along the years he had often wondered if he should have tried harder to reach Thranduil.

“Two millennia is a long time,” Glorfindel said, his voice low but audible. It was an offensive comment, implying that Thranduil possessed several unpleasant traits. Wildly inappropriate in any imaginable diplomatic mission. And, perhaps, his only chance.

The courtiers started murmuring and shifting, but Thranduil did not respond, his silent grin imparting a bitter mark of appraisal upon Glorfindel. Finally, he snorted.

“In my study!” he said, abruptly leaving the room through an exit on his left.

“But Sire…” one of the courtier tried to protest.

“I can handle this perfectly well,” Thranduil’s words cut so coldly that the poor man all but shriveled.

Glorfindel had to hasten his step to catch up with him.

They walked in silence for a short stretch until the corridor took a sharp turn and they faced a door with two guards. At the sight of Thranduil, the men came to attention with a start, and promptly shuffled aside to let them pass. After Glorfindel entered the room, Thranduil closed the door with a loud bang.

“You have some nerve,” Thranduil said, strutting past Glorfindel straight to a shelf carved on the rock that held several twinkling bottles and a set of glasses. “Dorwinion or something a little stronger tonight?” he continued, cordially, as he poured himself the liquid of his choice.

“Something a little stronger,” Glorfindel said, knowing he was being baited.

After taking a sip from his own drink, Thranduil obliged. “Here,” he said, proffering the glass. “Something your beloved Men sent me a while ago. It is not bad at all.”

Glorfindel had to bite his tongue not to reply “They are not my beloved Men.” He inhaled deeply, drawing in the warming aroma of the brandywine. He rolled the first sip in his mouth. “Ah…” he said, after a moment. “Brandywine. Very popular in the Kingdom of Rhudaur... I did not know you were friends.”

Thranduil smiled. “Friends with benefits,” he said with a shrug. Glorfindel recognized the bait but forced himself not to rise to it, so he took another sip.

Thranduil walked to a table and gestured for Glorfindel to join him. There was a large map with all of Middle-Earth. “So, is Amroth going to war too, or is it just Imladris and Gil-galad’s sad remains of Lindon?”

Glorfindel sighed. “Galadriel is trying to persuade Amroth to become involved, but as you certainly have heard, the king has more pressing matters on his mind.”

“Ah, yes, love makes fools out of people.”

“But never you,” Glorfindel said,hoping the words didn’t sound as bitter as they tasted on his tongue.>.

Thranduil raised his glass to him and gulped the last of it before pouring himself another drink.

Glorfindel looked intently at the map before him, searching for something to say. “I did not see your wife by your side back there. I trust she is well. We did send regards upon the news of your wedding.”

Thranduil looked away, his gaze fixing on the glowing fireplace. “Actually, I am between wives.”

Glorfindel choked on his wine. Composing himself, he remarked, “Oh really? How is that- ”

Thranduil leaned on the table. “Darling, as I have told you numerous times in the past, it is you, the Noldor, who overcomplicate things. Even before we were considerably more flexible than the lot of you in our customs. After the Last Alliance, though, there were many women, very few men. Oh, but you might not recall that.”

“Enough, Thranduil. You know full well that no one enjoyed what happened to your people, and that we all suffered losses.”

“Claws out. I like that.”

Glorfindel closed his eyes for a second. “Are you really still bitter after all this time, or is this just a game for you?”

“Both. Less the first, more the second. The winters are long here, and I get bored cooped up in here with what little is left of my people.”

As Glorfindel glanced up to meet Thranduil’s gaze, the King of the Woodland Realm raised his chin defiantly, “You have heard that right.”

“So... this is why you have turned us away? They are all in here? How many are left?” Glorfindel pinched the skin between his eyebrows.

“They are not all here – we keep patrols and there are still a few small dwellings in the vicinity of the halls – but yes, we are still low in numbers, even after all this time and despite our colorful family arrangements. Fertility is low, mortality is high; and we do not have shiny, magical baubles either.”

Thranduil set his glass on the table maybe a little more forcibly than necessary. “So no, I will not send a single one of my friends, subjects, kin, or otherwise to help Elrond or the Gondorian clean up the mess at Fornost. I cannot afford it – at all.”

“I see,” Glorfindel said. There was nothing left to say. In Imladris, Lothlórien and Mithlond, there was wild speculation about Thranduil’s numbers, and it was true that Glorfindel had heard the theory that, upon turning dark, Greenwood was no longer a healthy place to procreate. Prevailing opinion held that Thranduil was just sulking and hiding a large, if poorly trained army.

“I will honour your trust in me, though,” he said at last. “And communicate whatever you wish me to.”

Thranduil nodded. “I know you will. But, frankly, it felt just fine to let that out, consequences or no.”

“How bad is it?” Glorfindel pushed.

“It is not that bad. The halls are crammed, to be honest, and we are trying to adapt some of the smaller branches of the caves to create new dwellings. But I can, by no means, dispense even a fraction of an army. There are things growing the forest… I cannot let them encroach us anymore. And besides, my people would go into war for Eärnur if I asked them to, but not gladly. But, should your foes flee east, they will find no hiding place in Mirkwood, of that I assure you.”

Glorfindel ran both hands over his face, stretching his skin, trying to think.

“So, why did you accept our request for an audience, if you knew what we were asking and what your answer would be?”

“I wanted to see you,” Thranduil said.

Glorfindel’s stomach dropped. It had been an age away. What did Thranduil expect of him? And why were his hands shaking?

Proffering his empty glass, he said, “I would like another one of those, please.” His voice faltered just a little. Thranduil did not show if he noticed.

Pouring the drink in silence, he searched for something in Glorfindel’s eyes. After a while, he said. “I supposed I ought to apologize for dragging you here for no reason.”

Glorfindel shook his head. “There is no need. And besides, you do not apologize, we both know that.”

Thranduil chuckled. “That was before my first wife. But I will apologize for your treatment back there – it is part of the show for my people. They need to know I am not too friendly with the people who want our young for battles.”

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows. He was curious about Mirkwood and especially about the wife, but he did not want to be rude. “Since I am here, and I trust you will give me shelter for the night, let us sit by the fire for a while and talk,” he proposed.

Thranduil cupped Glorfindel’s cheek with his hand. He rubbed his thumb on the skin close to the nose, the lips. “Let us,” he agreed.

They sat in the comfortable leather chairs covered with furs.

“Your new home is lovely. I especially enjoyed the craftsmanship of the doors to the throne room,” Glorfindel said.

“They were commissioned by my first wife to my brother-in-law. It was quite a scandal, then, and there was talk of abuse of power, but I am quite satisfied with the result.”

“The queen was not popular…?” Glorfindel inquired.

“Mirael was a commoner, and a Silvan, and that made my choice questionable in the eyes of some. And she could be quite abrasive, which was a great trait for the chief of the linen looms, which she was before we married, but caused some problems later on, as queen.”

“You sound both fond of her and yet distant…”

“It was a match of mutual appreciation and interest. Love came only later, and not in the exaggerated ways of youth.”

Glorfindel snorted. “Youth was so long ago that I can barely remember it.”

“You were youthful enough, as I recall.”

Glorfindel smiled. “You brought that out in me.” Averting his eyes, he remembered how Thranduil’s infectious mirth had held the morale up back in the days of war. The soldiers loved and respected the son of the king and it was a joy to be in the Greenwood camp. And it had been much more than a joy to get acquainted with him. Thranduil’s mirth was sometimes only skin-deep, as Glorfindel later came to know, and yet he held up the façade for the sake of his father and comrades. 

And Glorfindel had felt young by his side. It was a pleasure to wander into the Silvan camp, just to visit or under the excuse of some joint task to tackle. Looking at Thranduil, he saw a glimmer in his eyes.

“So, where is your queen, then?” he asked, trying to break the spell that seemed to fall about him. “Did she sail?”

“We only produced one child, as you know. The both of us wanted more so we went our separate ways.”

“That is very… progressive.”

“We are savages, right?” Thranduil challenged.

“I would not say so. I have seen too much to insist that the old ways of Aman are the only valid paths in life. As you well know, given what we shared…”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow.

“And,” Glorfindel continued, “I find it delightful, appropriate, and ironic, all at the same time, that you have such Feänorian urges.”

Thranduil chuckled. “Well, what can I say… I have other urges too.”

Glorfindel laughed. That was so Thranduil, a giant prank, to let him come all the way to Mirkwood for not much in the way of the things he wanted but to throw a little boon to soothe him in the end.

“I barely have time for urges, these days,” Glorfindel quipped.

“That is a shame.” Thranduil’s gaze and drawl were provocative, but he did not move from his chair.

Suddenly, Glorfindel felt tired of the game. He crossed the distance between the two chairs and knelt between Thranduil’s knees. “Say the words,” he dared.

Thranduil placed his glass on the small side-table. “Alright.” He ran his fingertips along Glorfindel’s jaw. “Kiss me.”

“Where?” said Glorfindel, reaching to touch Thranduil’s skin under the hem of his tunic.

“Where do you want to?” Thranduil deflected, his fingers slipping down to Glorfindel’s neck, then to the buttons of his dolman.

“Where would you like me too?” asked Glorfindel, massaging Thranduil’s hardening shaft.

Their eyes locked and they burst out laughing. Their little game of old could go on for hours. Sometimes one could be deep inside the other and they would still be talking, playing with words to avoid the naming of other things, love, chains, things that could never have a place in the lives of either, not in that form.

Still chuckling, Glorfindel took Thranduil into his mouth, surprising himself with his hunger. Thranduil enjoyed his efforts for a few moments, but he too was eager and soon both were undressed, lying in the furs before the fireplace, writhing in each other’s arms. Loneliness dissolved; in its place came the wistfulness for another time and soon after, only untainted joy remained between them. Their connection, made in equal parts of desire and trust, remained unspoiled under the thin lacquer of distance and time.

As they lay beside the embers, and Thranduil playfully nibbled his ear to reawaken his desire, Glorfindel decided he would accept Thranduil’s invitation and stay for the week. He could not spare any more time and they should not raise suspicion, but he could enjoy this, this small, subterranean thing between them, this moment in time for a thing that could never be born but that had never died.

 _Finis_  
_December 2016_


End file.
